We Could Be So Good by Cat Sebastian – Soft Queer Longing in 1950s New York

Sebastian Hart

A Love Story Between Headlines and Coffee Cups

Cat Sebastian’s We Could Be So Good answers a tricky question: how do you write a soft, hopeful MM romance set in a decade when queer love was criminalised, pathologised, and pushed into shadows? The answer, in this case, is to narrow the camera.

Instead of sweeping us through the entire Lavender Scare, Sebastian builds a world around two men in a mid‑century New York newsroom: one anxious, overworked reporter; one charming but directionless heir who has stumbled into journalism with more privilege than experience. Within the hum of typewriters and the smell of coffee, a friendship begins that slowly edges toward something neither man has words for at first.

The book is being widely recommended as a “comfort historical,” and that is accurate—but “comfort” here doesn’t mean denial. It means carefully chosen focus: the terror of the era is present, but the narrative keeps circling back to tenderness.

Tropes at Work: Friends to Lovers, Emotional Repression, Found Family

Readers of LGBT Novel Atlas will recognise several core tropes deployed with precision:

  • Friends to Lovers – the relationship starts with workplace banter, shared cigarettes, and late‑night copy‑editing. The romance feels earned because we believe in the friendship first.
  • Emotional Repression – both heroes have been taught, in different ways, to swallow feelings. Watching them struggle to articulate love is half the point.
  • Secret Relationship – any misstep could cost them jobs, safety, or family ties. The secrecy is not drama for its own sake; it’s historically grounded.
  • Found Family – the newsroom, neighbouring apartments, and queer‑friendly spaces slowly become a home that the outside world refuses to offer.

Sebastian leans hard into slow burn. The book spends time on mundane things—helping someone move, sharing meals, running errands—that many authors would cut. Those domestic beats are exactly what make the final romantic shift feel seismic.

Historical Setting: Just Enough Dark to Make the Light Matter

1950s New York is not romanticised. The narrative acknowledges:

  • police raids on gay bars,
  • whispered rumours about people “disappearing” from jobs,
  • families who would rather disown sons than accept who they love.

But Sebastian is not writing tragedy. Instead, she uses the era’s hostility to underline the courage involved in even small acts:

  • choosing to stay in the city rather than fleeing to a conventional life,
  • trusting a friend enough to hint at queerness,
  • reaching for a hand in a dark theatre instead of keeping it safely in your own lap.

For readers worried about historical queer stories that end in sorrow, consider this reassurance: this is a romance, and Sebastian honours the contract. The path is narrow, but it leads to a believable, hard‑won happy ending.

Characters: Anxious Reporter and Golden Retriever Heir

The emotional core of the novel lies in its leads:

  • The reporter is prickly, anxious, habitually over‑responsible. He knows the rules of his world too well and expects punishment for breaking them.
  • The heir is golden‑retriever charming but initially careless; falling in love forces him to think about power, money, and risk for the first time.

Their dynamic is a quiet riff on Grumpy × Sunshine, except that the “sunshine” has his own shadows and the “grump” is capable of fierce tenderness.

One of the loveliest threads is how the heir uses his privilege—slowly and imperfectly—to carve out safer space for both of them. He is not a savior, but he does things the other man cannot, simply because he will land softer if the worst happens.

Queer Joy Within Constraints

One of the book’s most radical choices is to centre joy. Queer readers know the historical record; we don’t need every detail of institutional violence spelled out to believe the stakes. Sebastian chooses instead to lavish description on:

  • shared breakfasts,
  • inside jokes,
  • the comfort of coming home to someone who understands why a passing comment was terrifying.

This focus does not erase danger. It asks, instead:

What does it look like to create queer joy in a world that would deny it to you?

For many readers—and especially for queer writers planning their own historical projects—this is a valuable model. You can honour reality without reproducing every horror on the page.

How It Fits Into the MM Romance Landscape

Compared with contemporary hockey romances or high‑heat billionaire stories, We Could Be So Good is almost shockingly gentle. Sex is present but not the focus; the emotional beats are about:

  • learning to speak the words “I want,”
  • negotiating what safety looks like for both partners,
  • deciding which compromises they can live with.

If your usual reading diet is modern, banter‑heavy romcoms, this book will feel slower and quieter. But that quiet is exactly where its power lies. It is a masterclass in:

  • using small stakes (will you come to dinner with my family?) to carry huge stakes (are we willing to be seen together at all?),
  • folding serious themes—labour politics, journalism ethics, queer history—into a soothing, character‑driven narrative.

Takeaways for Authors

  • You can write historically grounded queer romance without defaulting to tragedy. The key is to be honest about risk while focusing on chosen pockets of safety.
  • Domestic details and workplace minutiae can be assets, not filler, when they build the sense that these are real men living real lives.
  • Friends‑to‑lovers arcs are especially powerful in hostile settings; friendship provides a plausible cover story and a believable bridge into romance.
  • If your KDP catalogue currently leans very contemporary, a book like this can inspire a “soft historical” sub‑line—still emotionally cozy, but rich with period detail.

For readers of LGBT Novel Atlas, We Could Be So Good sits squarely at the intersection of trope comfort and historic specificity. It’s a reminder that queer love has always found ways to bloom, even between newsroom deadlines and the threat of a knock on the door.